


Trail's End

by BodaciousBanana



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Het, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering, just plain old sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 14:07:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14403729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BodaciousBanana/pseuds/BodaciousBanana
Summary: After being torn apart by the events of Caught in the System, Soap and Lara are finally reunited.





	Trail's End

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sassysatsuma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassysatsuma/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Caught in the System](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/373260) by Sassy Satsuma. 



> Originally written several years ago for Sassy Satsuma, posted with her permission.

Pitch and yaw, up and down. The Land Rover leaves its dusty red calling card through the well-worn potholes, their muddy bottoms long since dried up. Its occupants haven’t spoken for a while, straining to look around the next bend in the road, their mouths dry, until the tin-roofed shack finally shows itself. After all the dead ends, this has to be the place. It looks much like any other in this part of Africa, a slapped-together building that includes a sort of outdoor museum featuring old cars, tools and assorted farming implements, all in various states of decay.

They soon have the attention of the bearded man in the blue jeans and the boonie hat, who stands in the shade tossing scratch for a few scrawny chickens. This _is_ the place.

She’s spent most of the trip racking her brain about what to say in this moment, and Lara still hasn’t come up with a sodding thing.

Price ignores the new arrivals as he finishes his task, saying something. It doesn’t seem to matter to him, that they’re catching him talking to the birds milling at his feet. He’s been accused of – and _done --_ far worse. The feed distributed, he slaps the grit off his hands and slowly, warily walks out to meet them.  His plaid shirt gets Lara’s attention; her time with Danny has taught her a thing or two. Unbuttoned, untucked -- she knows it’s unlike Price, and that he’s wearing it over his white t-shirt to conceal the fact that he’s armed.

Price eyes the driver for a moment. They haven’t seen each other in ages. Danny’s looking pleased with himself.  Smug, even. He gets out and sets to work on stretching the kinks out of his back, in a manner that says _this ought to be good._ The corners of his mouth are working their way northward.  

Price’s mouth is a downturned, petulant slash dividing his bristly, graying beard. He regards Danny through narrowed eyes.

“Utter bollocks.” 

Danny’s eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”

“When I first moved here, it was everything the letting agent said.  Posh neighborhood, nice architecture–“ Price waves his hand to indicate the cluttered barren space in front of the house, then the house itself, before gesturing toward the rotting, weed-infested husk of a forties-era car. “ – close to transportation. But before I knew it, things were on a downhill slide.” He gives him a sideways, steely look from beneath the brim of his hat, one eyebrow raised. “Your presence indicates the place has completely gone to shit.”

Price can’t keep it up for more than a few seconds. He breaks into a broad smile that few have seen, and the two embrace, slapping each other on the back. But Danny isn’t Price’s biggest surprise of the day -- his face falls when Lara steps out from behind the Land Rover.

She doesn’t know what to expect from him. Frankly, the last time she _did_ see him, she was wishing they’d never crossed paths to begin with.

But she’s not the only one who’s changed; the old hostility is nowhere to be seen. As Price approaches, his expression is not unkind, his question one of complete earnesty: “How … how are you?”

She throws his own words back at him, also not unkindly, with a shrug and half-smile. “I’ll live, I guess.” 

That gets to him. The crinkling around his eyes makes him look almost fatherly, but he’s still as difficult to read as ever. The smile for her, while still warm, is somehow different … wistful?  He nods toward the house. “He’s in there. Getting some kip, I imagine.” He reaches out and -- to her complete surprise -- squeezes her on the shoulder. He then steps back and addresses Danny, nodding his head toward a dirt path under the trees where other buildings stand visible in the distance. “C’mon mate, let me buy you a drink.” The two look at each other, then back at her, but she’s already in motion.

Her whole world has shrunk to a rusty screen door with bare gray wood. It opens with exactly the sound she’d expect, but the noise provokes no reaction from within. Neither does the squeak of her footsteps across warped planks. A shotgun leans against the wall, just inside the door. The room is plain and spare, but tidy. Any food that’s not sealed in a packet is tucked away in a coffee tin with a scrawled label. Faded vinyl gingham is tacked to the tabletop, possibly to cover some unpleasant reality underneath. A folded bit of paper rests beneath one leg of the table, with the rickety mismatched wooden chairs tucked in. The small gas stove is scrubbed down to the stubborn blackened circles around its burners, with the evidence of that effort stored on a nearby shelf. A plastic five-gallon jug resting on a small camp stool, with a bucket to catch any drips, suggests that the water from the ancient white enamel sink, with its conelike stain of rusty brown, is somewhat less than drinkable.

Past the small sitting area with its broken, uneven sofa draped in a blanket, there is one other room here, its door slightly ajar. She can see a bed in there, neatly made and empty, draped in mosquito netting. She pushes the door open. Dust motes sparkle; the yellow beams of late afternoon sunlight spilling through the window seem intent on barring her entry. Automatically, without thinking, she closes the door behind her.

The light dazzles her somewhat, until her eyes adjust to the sleeping figure blurred by shadow and gossamer fabric. Her breath catches, and after all that she’s been through, the sight of him leaves her rooted to the spot.

He’s lying on his back, on top of the covers. One arm is thrown over his head, framing the edges of the pillow.  His other hand rests, slowly rising and falling, on his belly. His shirt, with its three buttons undone at the top, is thin beige cotton, tucked into slightly darker cotton trousers that look too large for him. Or maybe he is too small for them – his face is thinner than she remembers, his cheekbones more prominent. He’s changed, too. His hair has grown out a lot, the lines of the Mohawk have blurred. The longer ends are beginning to form glossy black curls. The scars, however, are unmistakable -- it’s definitely him. His face is shadowed in its usual late-day stubble. His feet are bare; a pair of flip-flops rests on the floor.

It’s odd to her, considering his battle-tuned senses, that he hasn’t yet woken. On top of the chest of drawers, there’s an assortment of white boxes marked with blue labels and red crosses. There are a couple rolls of white tape and some scissors, along with a zippered blue medical kit. By the distance of these supplies from the bed and the way they are pushed to the back -– behind the sawed-off shotgun -- she guesses these haven’t been used recently. Unlike the vial of pills and the half-empty bottle of water on the bedside table – that explains it. 

She finds her voice. “John?”

Eyelashes flutter; he takes a deep breath, preparing to resurface. She sweeps the netting aside, lowers herself onto the edge of the bed. “John?” Drowsy eyes search for a brief moment before landing on her, and they grow alert at once.

Price’s reaction was nothing compared to the look he’s giving her now. Two stunned blue pools beneath a knotted brow. Without rising, head still resting on his pillow, he reaches out with a tentative hand. Fingertips trace the edge of her face, as if testing to see if she’s real.

It starts as a joke, but her voice cracks and she can barely get the words out. “You’re a tough bloke to find, you know that?”

A tear comes to rest on his finger. He sits up, wipes it gently away. Caresses her face, cupping her cheek with a callused hand, sweeping away another drop with his thumb.

And then she’s sobbing, wrapping herself around him, pressing her face into his shoulder. He doesn’t react at first, staring past her into empty space. But his eyes are bright, a small vein standing out on his temple, and finally he allows himself to believe, his arms encircling her quivering body. He buries his face in her neck, closes his eyes, and simply breathes her in.

She’s dreamed of nothing but this.  Being engulfed in the warmth of his strong arms, his broad chest against hers, feeling the soft thud of the stubborn heart she’d feared had been silenced forever. His sudden indrawn breath in her ear and the fierce tightening of his embrace startles her at first, until she melts against him, responding with a firmer squeeze of her own. Her hand travels upward to the back of his head, sinking her fingers into the thick new growth of hair.

He draws back to gaze at her. He brushes her tears aside, tracing the wet trails, and frowns when he discovers a fading bruise on her cheek. He encircles its margins with a fingertip, then leans in to plant a gentle kiss there. Withdraws again to see her eyes searching his face. Returns to kiss the moisture away. Kissing and nuzzling a slow, teasing trail downward, fingers curling beneath her chin, drawing her closer, until he finds her hungry mouth at last.

The emotion swelling within her is beyond words, beyond all definition.

His soft lips pull at hers again and again, until the moist warmth of his tongue explores their borders. She yields, the kiss deepening as he cradles the back of her head, then frees her hair from its ponytail. He combs his fingers through the long strands, entwining them. A gentle pull, a nudge; her head falls back. His nose and lips brush her, making her shiver, before pressing a soft kiss into the delicate skin of her neck. Nuzzling, kissing and tasting his way downward, across her collarbones, then up again. The kisses become firmer, more demanding. Teeth graze her earlobe, earning a sudden inhalation and reflexive dig of her fingertips into his back. His hot mouth seeks out the pounding pulse in her neck, nipping and sucking; a tingling response blossoms between her legs.  

Roving hands become less polite. His find their way under her t-shirt; she returns the favor, a hand traveling up the firm ridges of his stomach, over the larger curves of his chest, sifting through the coarse hair, feeling the quickening of his heartbeat. Still dangling over the bedside, she realizes her lack of leverage, and takes a moment to yank off her boots.

As soon as the second boot hits the floor, he grabs her waist, guiding her to straddle him. She settles into his lap, folding her long legs around him. He pulls her in close for another hungry kiss, then works her t-shirt over her head – a temporary disruption -- as she grinds her pelvis against him, the firm bulge beneath her removing all doubt. His hand slides down the back of her trousers, warm against her bare bottom, encouraging her to continue, while the other fumbles with her bra.

Her breath catches at the tingling spikes of pleasure shooting through her, her nipple hardening against the rough stroking of his thumb. He bows his head, as if in worship. Warm weight against her chest, eyelashes fluttering against her skin. She sighs at the gentle pull of his mouth, her fingers getting lost again in the surprising softness of his scalp. She strums her hands over his head, feeling the difference between the fine growth on the sides and the thick, wavy ridge down the center.

A firm tug, hot breath against her wet nipple –- she shudders, heat gathering deep inside her. More. Now. She takes hold of his jaw and locks eyes with him, demanding his attention.

He obeys, and she homes in on his neck, tasting and smelling him, reacquainting herself. The spicy, salty tang of sweat, and the clean, simple smell of … soap. His head lolls back to oblige her, and she explores his rough jawline, searching out the baby-soft skin beyond the stubble, hungrily nipping and sucking. His sighs of pleasure soon sharpen, his grip tightens. Mouths clash, tongues plunging and darting, devouring. She follows the groove of his abdominals down to the line of dark curls past his navel, to the promise of more just below his waistband. His shaky breaths, mingling with her own, urge her onward. She quickly unfastens the offending garment, delving into the musky warmth to take him in her hand, burning hot and iron-hard. When her fingers encircle his taut length, running along the ridge beneath, massaging the velvety soft head with her thumb, he moans into her mouth.

They both rise to their knees, recognizing the fact that they’re overdressed for the occasion; she wants to push his shirt over his head, he’s working on the button of her trousers. The attempts become as frenzied as their kissing. His hand dives straight down into her knickers, following the contour of her body, cupping her mound -- gently rubbing, tugging, skin gliding over skin, leaving her breathless with want. Fingers sinking into her warm folds, probing…

In a matter of seconds, the rest of their clothing joins the chaotic pile on the floor.

 

* * *

 

Once they can both see each other fully, they both freeze, chests heaving, eyes riveted by the telltale red ridges of fresh scarring. Careful hands reach for the recently healed injuries; her right side, his abdomen.

Her brow creases, fingertips and eyes surveying the remains of a stab wound and surgical incision. He’s spent a long time healing from this, and the pills on the table remind her that task is far from over.

His forehead is crumpled in sorrow, the pain in his eyes raw, as he touches the small, short scar on her side, a stab wound of a different sort; then traces the one curving along her ribcage, beneath her arm. Sighing heavily, he draws her close in a protective embrace, planting a kiss on her forehead, as the pads of his fingers locate the puckered circle of flesh on her back -- the bullet wound.

Her hands frame his jaw again, to angle his face toward hers, insistent.   Once she has his eyes, hers grant him forgiveness.

His gaze withers beneath hers, retreats back to her scars. Brow still furrowed, his head tilts to the slide, sweeps left and back; his lips part slightly but he doesn’t say a word. Disbelief? Regret? An apology? She’s not sure.

 _Stop it. This isn’t on you, John._ She leans into him, caressing his cheek, taken aback by the unfamiliar sharpness of his cheekbone. She closes a delicate eyelid with her lips, brushing them down along the cord of scar tissue, then nuzzles a trail back to his, taking a moment to gently suck on his bottom lip. His fingertips are lightly skimming half-circles over her body, and when they brush her flanks, she shudders, gasping; he readily accepts the invitation of her open mouth. 

Their breathing soon quickens again, his explorations becoming more assertive, his plunging tongue more forceful. His hand is back on her bottom, squeezing and releasing, parting her cheeks, sliding into the cleft to approach her most sensitive areas. As if this weren’t enough, his other hand has returned to the ache between her legs. Fingers straddle the opening, spreading her, stroking the delicate flesh but refusing to enter. Finally, one finds its way. Slips in, retreats. Glides deeper, curves back to spread her own wetness across her -- she rears up with a strangled cry.

Her left hand leaves the band of muscle at his waist, snakes down to grasp the firm, round swell of his buttock. Her right joins his, guiding his fingers back to their task while moistening her own to answer the invasion. She envelops his throbbing hardness with twisting strokes, pausing and tightening at the end, his crown popping through the taut circle of her fist.

He sucks a hissing breath through his teeth, eyes squeezed shut. Groaning, he bites his lip. 

Waves of heat are rising between them; he’s only inches away. She begins to guide him home.

He gently pushes away her ministrations, puts a hand on her shoulder and bows his head, panting, in a gesture of surrender. Not yet. 

His blue eyes -- and his kiss -- ask for her understanding. Cradling her in his arms, he carefully lays her back down on his pillow.

He straddles her, knees sinking into the mattress, and pauses. She stares transfixed; he’s a stunning sight. His roughly handsome face is full of desire for her, his eyes hungrily roaming her naked body. As before, from his eyebrow to his waist he’s rugged, scarred and imperfect; tattooed with ink and survival. His jawline is darkened by the almost ever-present stubble, the rest of him shaded with just the right amount of body hair. The hair on his chest is just how she remembers it, like wispy dark flames erupting from the center, becoming more diffuse as it rises upward and spreads almost to his nipples. Injury and convalescence have taken their toll, rendering his normally muscular build leaner and more defined. The rise of his pectorals is less prominent, the ripple of his abdominals more so, the taper of his waist more narrow. The dark trail down his lower belly widens and thickens into a black nest between his legs. His proud manhood juts out from beneath it all, taut and shiny, its head plump and ripe. Now this magnificent body is descending upon on her, hovering over her, trapping her in strong warmth.

He lowers his face to her heaving breasts, nuzzling a soft line between them. Taunts the pebbled skin. A surge of heat throbs between her legs, suggesting what else he might do with that flickering tongue. He attends to them both; a rough palm, rolling fingers. A hot wet mouth. A cool puff of air. Her own breathing growing heavier. Nipples rosy, glistening and erect. His hands begin to roam.

His touch is feather-light, and maddening; a whisper of nails brushes lazy curves down her sides and belly.  She shudders at the combination of his tongue’s moist, rasping trails down the center of her ribcage and the light stroking of her flanks. His breath heats her skin, and as she watches the dark, soft top of his head working its way downward, she can barely breathe herself.

He loiters for a moment, planting soft kisses below her navel, licking and nibbling at the thin skin along her hipbone. Fingertips graze her belly -- her breath hitches.

She is no longer restrained, but escape is the furthest thing from her mind. He’s parting her legs, draping them over his broad shoulders, settling his face between them.

He keeps his distance at first, and it’s agonizing. A breeze of fingertips and scrape of his tongue fire up the nerve endings of her inner thighs, lighting the way forward. Just when she thinks she knows where this is going, he starts over, on the other leg. The stroking, suckling, nuzzling, nipping … and _god_ , the stubble tickling her…moving ever closer… arriving at the join … a thrill shoots through her at the firm wet sucking of the sensitive skin there. She’s teetering on the brink of madness, her heart pounding in her throat, eyes shut to savor every sensation, waiting for it; she spreads her legs wider for him … he’s parting her, exposing her…

He stops.

Her eyes snap open. Blue eyes stare back over her fuzzy dark mound, willing her to look. He extends his glistening pink tongue, holding her gaze as he bends his head lower … at last, he tastes her -- she gasps. A long, slow lick upward, ending at her center, leaves her clawing at the bedcovers. Her low moan ends in a squeak.

His tongue is soft, hard, slick and rough –- all at once. Licking luxuriously between the folds, he takes a moment to suck tenderly on the loose skin. Pushes the tip into the opening, then laps at her gently. Swirling upward, circling gloriously, agonizingly,  _dangerously_ closer. Curling, flickering, then direct pressure – it’s almost more than she can stand – an electric jolt, hot and cold. She cries out, writhing, and grinds herself into his face, his stubble rasping against her inner thighs. A twitch in the sudden roughness -- she’s far too caught up in the sweet torment to know for sure – was that a _smile?_ He slows his pace, and pushes a finger deep inside her.

He speeds up again, renews his onslaught. She’s squirming and mewling, a knot of bedcovers clenched in each fist. At his lashing tongue, and the finger sliding almost all the way out, curling upward before slowly burying itself again.

This is the first time he’s done this to her, and not one of her _many_ fantasies about it has done it justice. She’s becoming completely unraveled, every nerve ending coming alight, her thoughts a jumbled riot. When she manages to collect herself enough to open her eyes, he is looking intently at her, observing every reaction.

Fast flicks, slow lapping, around and direct. Her moans are getting louder, tingling heat building within her. The finger slips out and down, massaging the tender skin below. Before she can think about how strangely empty she feels, it plunges back in, joined by a second.

With a choked gasp, she thrusts against him in response. Her head is spinning, and she’s getting lost; waves of pleasure are threatening to sweep her away.

He quickens his pace, flickering faster, harder… a slippery finger emerges, slides below her opening, curving further and further down, pressing in … he suckles her directly –-

\-- and her world implodes – bursts -- expanding and shrinking into a pulsing singularity. Shuddering cries tear out of her, back arched, wave after wave wracking her, until finally it’s over and she’s left there in a limp disarray, muscles quivering, struggling to catch her breath.

 

* * *

 

When she comes to her senses, he is kneeling over her, idly stroking her thigh, clearly aroused by what he has wrought. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his mouth slightly open, shoulders heaving. He brushes the stray hair out of her eyes, the backs of his fingertips grazing her cheek.

He pushes her legs up and back, draping one over his shoulder, lifting her hips. Guiding himself to her entrance, he rubs against her in a slow, tight circle, anointing his crown in her dewy flesh. Thick hardness presses into her, meets resistance, relents to draw another wet spiral. He’s trembling; she’s captivated by his tense struggle for self-control. Another firm push, hot and insistent, forces a soft surrender. A slow glide of rigid heat, spreading and filling her. A shared sigh.

His eyes roll closed for some deep, shuddering breaths. Even in this he shows discipline, and she wonders how much control he’s got left. She lifts her leg off his shoulder, running her bare toes down along the groove dividing the round mass of his shoulder. He snatches her foot for a quick kiss; the mattress creaks as settles his warm weight over her again. Arms entwine. His retreat is deliciously slow, his thrust smooth and deep, his groan a low rumble in her ear.

“Mmm…”

She feels as if she might drown in the consummate pleasure of this. He is hers and she is his, at last. As she’s always wanted it, taking their time. Not in some stolen, hurried tryst.

Shallower, slower at first -- hips flexing, abdominals contracting in a rolling rhythm. His hands are firmly planted on either side of her, the corded muscles of his tense forearms veiled in dark hair, tanned upper arms fully exposed. Round, powerful shoulders give way to the strong curves below, his triceps like iron bands.

Hidden moisture sparkles above her, within the black weave on his chest. His eyes are at half-mast; tiny beads of sweat glitter on his forehead, creased in the center by a plump vein. A sudden thrust forces her back into the pillow, the friction of the sheet harsh against her skin. His head falls back to release a guttural moan.

She waits until he opens his eyes again to send her unspoken message of adoration, one she still can’t find the words for -- or that she’s still afraid to say. Her heart swells, threatens to burst, at the look she receives in return. She lifts her legs up, opening herself to him further.

His mouth, his hands fall on hers, fingers interlacing. Lips pulling, tongues pushing; she tastes her own sweetness. She grunts at his next deep thrust, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling herself tightly against him -- and he’s a sweating, seething bundle of muscle, driving into her again and again, deeper than she thought possible, sending ribbons of electric pleasure unfurling between her legs.

His glistening scarred brow is crumpled, his eyes squeezed shut. Fingers tighten around hers. His mouth is clamped into a firm line, the muffled hum growing louder … his slick, plunging length is stretching her, filling her … her own rhythmic gasps spill forth. 

The dam of his mouth has burst -- he’s moaning aloud now, but it doesn’t sound right. There’s an undertone to it, one she can’t yet identify. He slows down, stops altogether. Rests his sweaty forehead on her shoulder, panting. The creak of taut fabric near her head draws her attention, flooding her with alarm. He’s hunched over, grimacing, a fist curling in the sheet.

He’s in pain.

The guilt slams into her. Why didn’t she notice it sooner? His expression, the tone of the noises he was making –- something was off about it all along. She rushes to soothe him, freeing her hands, smoothing back the damp spikes in his hair. _Oh my god, I’m so sorry. So selfish._ “Hey,” she says softly. “John … look at me.” He shifts, and she gently gets him to face her and open his eyes. There is a mixture of shame and frustration there, along with the discomfort. “Hurts?”

Closing his eyes again, he nods wordlessly.

“It’s okay. Let’s just slow down for a while, all right?”

“No!” A sharp flare of blue. In breathy gusts, he attempts an explanation. “Lara …I…”

It’s unfair. She can sort this out, make it right. She presses two fingers to his lips, dragging them downward, parting them slightly, his breath warming her fingertips. His skin is hot, his cheek damp and rough beneath her hand. She rains light kisses along his jaw, sucking on the tender saltiness below his ear. His breathing slows, and he relaxes into her embrace. Tasting his velvety earlobe, she whispers an invitation: “Turn over.”

He offers his gratitude with a long and tender kiss, fingers twisting in her hair. Still buried inside her, he holds her tightly and carefully rolls on his uninjured side, onto his back. Kneeling astride him, she plants her hands on his thundering chest and begins to rock. Now it is her turn to drape herself over him, plundering his mouth. He hums his approval, replying with a forceful kiss in turn. Forward and back, muscles constricting around his rock-hard, swollen member. His chest is rising to meet hers, the rough crinkle of hair against her nipples making her shiver. She straightens slightly, finding a better angle. Sighing, he reaches for the breasts jiggling tantalizingly in his face. 

She isn’t prepared for the intensity of it, the rub outside, the pressure inside. His expression is dreamy as he fondles her breasts.  She rides faster, grinding harder against him, breath hitching when he tweaks a nipple. She didn’t expect it to return so soon, the crackle of energy between her legs. A gathering storm, approaching fast.

Too fast, too soon. She leans back to take some of the pressure off, her hair a soft sweep against her back. Refocuses on him, grips him tight between her thighs – his hands are traveling up them, stroking, squeezing – fingers digging in. She finds her rhythm. Forward and back, up and down – just enough to keep him snug inside her. The constant fullness, the wet glide of thick heat. A searing flare of arousal, pulsing in her center, sends tendrils down her thighs. Rocking, thrusting her hips. A tilt. A swirl. His head falls back, mouth open, his breathing a rasping _ahh_ , arching against her. Hands on her waist, guiding her – yes, right there. More of that.

She grinds faster. He’s growing tense beneath her, getting closer … and so is she. Friction, pressure in all the right places.  Tingling, rising, radiating. He growls, eyes narrowed, breath hissing through clenched teeth. His hands land on her buttocks with an abrupt fleshy slap, squeezing them firmly together, pulling her into him.

Her breasts bounce as he thrusts up to meet her, his throbbing length sending jolts of pressure deep in her belly. The thrilling, aching rub; the slick, burning hot slide; the smack of skin against skin … it’s overwhelming. Her moans are guttural, animal. She feels his hand reach for their joining … feels him coiling beneath her…

A sudden sharp dig of fingertips, and he’s roaring -- eyes screwed shut, teeth bared, red-faced, veins bulging in his neck and forehead, thrusting hard. A bolt of lightning arcs through her -- the icy cold grind of a wet thumb on her center, relentlessly following her every move -- and _OH_

\-- she’s lost, exploding, as she feels him pumping his release deep inside her. Back arched, breasts jutting. Twitching, shuddering, her orgasm clawing its way through her. The small room reverberates with their cries, over and over, until the storm has finally passed.

Shaky, weak, spent. It takes her a moment to extricate herself. She collapses beside him, slicks the sweaty hair out of her eyes.

His words are nothing more than husky, whispered exhalations. “Oh god … oh Lara...” 

“All right?”

He huffs out a chuckle, with a lift of his eyebrows, a broad grin lights up his face. “Oh, aye.” He blows out another deep breath, and sighs, his eyes drifting shut for a few minutes, recovering. Utterly relaxed, she begins to doze as well, when he rolls to face her. The smile is gone, replaced with earnest sincerity. Taking her hand, he kisses her knuckles before enveloping it in both of his.

His eyes lower briefly to his abdomen. “It was a close one, this. We were a long way from help, and if it hadn’t been for Nikolai, I wouldn’t have made it.“ She swallows, an unbearable ache rising in her throat at the thought. Though she wants to know, she doesn’t press – not now -- and she’s glad he doesn’t offer. “The whole time I was stuck lying in that bed, I couldn’t stop – “ He squeezes her hand emphatically. “I’ve _never_ stopped thinking about you. I’ve thought of you every day since…you _scared_ me, Lara. And even after I’d learned that you’d pull through, I still didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” At the growing hoarseness in his voice, fresh tears spring to her eyes. His forehead meets hers, his warm hand strokes her cheek, wiping them away. “Shh, don’t you start.” He bestows a gentle kiss on her eyebrow.

She sniffles. “You won’t be rid of me that easily, John MacTavish.”

 He strokes her hair for a moment, quieting her. A smile is warming his face again, one of admiration. “Mmm, I don’t think so. It’s true, I’m a tough bloke to find … takes one hell of a tough bird to find me.”

She relaxes with a sleepy sigh. “It was one hell of a manhunt.”

Another quirk of eyebrows.   “But you got your man, didn’t you, lass…” He shoots her a sideways look, speaking in an exaggerated accent.  “In the end, you came out on top.”

“Oh _indeed,_ Mister Bond.” She rolls her eyes and grins, giving him a soft poke with her nose. “And don’t you forget it.”

They settle down. He tips her onto her side and pulls her toward him, wrapping his arms around her. He grows serious again, his voice a low whisper as he rests his head on her shoulder, his breath a warm puff on her cheek. “Never.”

She snuggles in close against him, her body molding itself to his. Her journey, for now, is at an end. She’s exhausted, but awash in blissful contentment. She has all she needs for the moment, all that she’s wanted. The rise and fall of his chest is like a soothing tide.  Beckoning, pulling her adrift.  Her eyes fall closed, and she lets it take her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
